Last night, when we were taking Jolie for the walk that never fails to rev her up before bed, we met a woman with a massive yellow lab. “No, Ulysses,” she said (the French seem to love giving their dogs classical names). “She’s too small.”
Apparently Jolie did not agree, since she darted forward just far enough to get her leash thoroughly entangled in Ulysses’, so that when he raised his head, she came clear off the ground. We got it straightened out, though, and had a chat (as we now tend to do) about dogs. “That breed has so much energy,” the woman said. “I see Lilou all the time, who needs so much exercise, and I often see others with the owners running along behind them–not for the owners, but for the dogs. And Lilou’s owner says she tires her out.” And while we were commenting that she may in fact have been referring to us when she mentioned the running owners (jogging isn’t big here; we stand out), it occurred to me that I know Lilou.
Lilou is a two-year-old Jack Russell who looks an awful lot like a grown-up Jolie, and she was also the first dog to play with her the way that Jolie likes to play. It was a wonderful departure from all of the sad little Yorkies who just sit there while Jolie jumps at them; Lilou promptly knocked her onto her back in the dirt and then kept on coming. It’s probably wise to seek out other Jack Russells–she also got great play from a psychotic little Bichon, but she kept cheating by biting the other dog’s long hair and just hanging on. Other Jacks will keep her honest.
But still: better the Bichon than us.
Anyway.
Near the end of our walk, we saw a woman who reminded me of someone, walking a Yorkie that looked just like all of the other Yorkies. “Good evening, Jolie!” she called from halfway down the block. “How is your cough?”
Excuse me?
When we approached her, obviously baffled, she turned to Nick. “You came to the pharmacy for her, right? Is she still coughing?”
But that’s not even the point. The point is that a few days ago, I had a lovely chat with a woman named Mariela, who described herself as “americane du coeur” and revealed that the dog she was walking was not in fact hers, but rather our pharmacist’s.
“She’s perfectly healthy,” I announced excitedly. “Thank you! But…I think you know a woman named Mariela? We met on the bridge the other day.”
“Oh! Yes–she was walking Balthus here, probably?”
I didn’t have the time or the vocabulary to probe further–would this woman make a good friend? A good dog-sitter? Would she have the energy to handle Jolie? What sort of character does she have? Is she really fluent in five languages? She said that she would leave her phone number for me with you–did she?
So now our pharmacist may think that I’m some kind of odd name-dropper, but that’s okay. I’m starting to see a shape to my neighborhood, and for that I’m willing to be the eccentric American.